


Insert Curse Words Here (Even Ones Door Made Up)

by ScotlandEvander



Series: Don't Ever Change [5]
Category: Actor RPF, Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Budding Romance, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Tea, Working on set
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandEvander/pseuds/ScotlandEvander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today, though, failing to recognize Tom Hiddleston was NOT Pamela’s fault.</p><p>He didn’t LOOK like Tom Hiddleston with the stubbly facial hair, the short kind of dark blond messy SHORT hair. His ears kind of stuck out. Tom Hiddleston’s ears didn’t— as far as Pamela could remember— stick out like the man she’d met in the kitchen ears did. </p><p>His hair was ALL WRONG.</p><p>Then again, his hair was usually wrong. Except in Wallander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insert Curse Words Here (Even Ones Door Made Up)

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

The knocking startled Pamela. She jumped ten feet into the air, falling off the bed where she’d chosen to hyperventilate and allow death from embarrassment to take her away to an early grave. She landed with a dull thud in a heap of ungraceful limbs. Pamela let her head fall onto the oriental rug that covered the worn wood plank flooring. 

“He’s gone,” Benedict’s voice sounded from the other side of the door. 

Benedict had a lovely voice. It was deep— so deep Pamela was sure its resonance could be used to drill for oil at the South Pole. The fact he spoke with a British accent made Pamela admit that maybe Door wasn’t mentally unbalanced because she was completely obsessed with all things British— especially the accent. 

Door originally decided to give Benedict her attention due to the resonance of his voice. Benedict’s voice was soothing, calming and made Pamela want to listen to him read the dictionary. 

Pamela’s nerves slowly stopped fraying. Her heart slowly stopped trying to gallop out of her chest. 

And it was not because Tom Muthafracking (another Door word) Hiddleston was gone. 

Oh, god. 

Captain Pamela Jane Fitch had spent the whole muthafracking day with Tom Hiddleston. 

(Who _did not_ have a great speaking voice. Who _did not_ have great hair. Who _did not_ sooth her nerves with that blasted smile of his.) 

(Lies, all lies. Pamela was lying to herself.)

(Damn you, Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston.)

Out of all the so called important people Door insisted Pamela remember and know about Tom Hiddleston was the only one she’d paid any attention to due to the fact Pamela liked his hair. 

Hair was important to Pamela. 

 _Wallander_ had been a milestone for Pamela due to the fact one of the characters had awesome hair. Pamela had sat through too many British dramas to count by the point _Wallander_ appeared on KLRN 9 on a rather overly hot Sunday, so when Door had sat her down to watch this odd Swedish crime show where everyone had British accents, Pamela gave it her usual level of attention till Door shouted, “It’s Hiddleston!”

“Huh?” Pamela had blankly asked, looking up from reading the manual for operation on the T-1. 

“Tom Hiddleston! From _Gathering Storm_! I’ve told you all about him. I totally forgot he was in this! Oh, that’s gorgeous! Brilliant!”

Pamela had blankly stared at Door before actually turning her attention to the TV.

And her world suddenly branched out passed the T-1 to include the curly mop-top head, clear blue eyes, and elegant, long fingered hands of Tom Hiddleston. The name jumped onto the iceberg in Pamela’s head and refused to be knocked out by things like rudder speed, air speeds, or what the red light meant. 

Tom Hiddleston claimed a corner of her iceberg and made himself comfortable. 

“He’s so going places, Pamela,” Door had insisted as they watched. “He’s got _it_. Plus, there’s the added bonus of the toothsome looks. Rghuhseuh.”

(Rghuhseuh wasn’t a word. It was simply a noise Door often made that actually had no meaning or context. She used it when she was excited, drooling, mad, confused, upset, sick, sad, or amazed. It was an all around noise made when she couldn’t actually make up a word to fit the situation.)

And so, Pamela started to pay attention to Door’s obsession with Tom Hiddleston— if only to watch his hair.

And what awesome hair he had in _Wallander_.

Loki did not have awesome hair. (Actually, none of the other roles Pamela has seen him in stood up to _Wallander_ hair.) 

Thus, Pamela never bothered to make the connection when the beautiful stranger she met in Ben’s kitchen had told her he was named Tom and had played Loki. She had clearly failed to take note of Tom Hiddleston’s name during the opening credits (if it appeared, she couldn’t be bothered to remember). 

Pamela blamed Door for this lack of knowledge that Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had appeared in two BIG movies. Door had made sure (even though she was in Alaska) that Pamela saw that movie with the guy with the nose that muthafracking Hiddleston appeared. Just last week, Door had forced (via Skype) Pamela to watch this overly depressing movie with another British chick that took place in the 1950s. 

Door constantly talked about muthafracking Hiddleston but had failed to mention in the past three years he was in _Thor_ and _The Avengers_ — movies Pamela had SEEN. In the THEATER. 

AND SHE HAD LIKED THEM. 

(For what they were, not for the same reason Door likely enjoyed them— one did not believe Door when she said she liked something for what it was if it contained muthafracking Hiddleston. By default Door liked everything he did and had since 2002. Hell, she liked that depressing movie and Pamela wanted to gouge her eyes out when she’d watched it.) 

Today, though, failing to _recognize_ Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston was NOT Pamela’s fault.

He didn’t LOOK like Tom Hiddleston with the stubbly facial hair, the short kind of dark blond messy SHORT hair. His ears kind of stuck out. Tom Hiddleston’s ears didn’t— as far as Pamela could remember— stick out like the man she’d met in the kitchen ears did. 

His hair was ALL WRONG.

Then again, his hair was usually wrong. Except in _Wallander_. 

“Thanks,” Pamela called out, remembering she had to respond to Benedict or he might think she’d offed herself. 

“Food is ready,” Benedict said, retreating back down the hall.

Pamela dragged her hands through her hair and took several deep breaths.

“Moron,” she muttered to herself. 

She left the room and headed for the kitchen. Benedict handed her a plate of hot pasta and offered her a smile. 

“So, you just spent the day with Tom Hiddleston— something a multitude of females and some males would like to do— and had no idea! What is with you and Door not realizing when you’re talking to famous people?”

“Huh?”

“Door didn’t tell you? She had no clue who I was till I took my sunglasses off. And I talked to her. Most people figure out who I am once I start talking,” Ben laughed, motioning for her to sit down at the bar. 

Pamela eased up onto the bar stool, feeling tried in every inch of her body. 

“She didn’t even tell me she met you. I read it on her blog,” Pamela replied. “I didn’t even realize how…close you two had gotten till I called her the other day to complain about staying on benches for another night in a fit of insanity.”

“Why were you staying in benches?”

“Well, the first night, it was because I’d gotten in too late to really find a hotel. The second time was because I was at the wrong airport and thus missed my plane and just decided to stay there. Then, when I finally got to London, I missed my plane back home and well…you know that part of the story.”

Pamela poked at the pasta with her fork. 

“Tom was quite…baffled,” Benedict offered after the silence had clearly gone on too long for him. “I figured you had likely made it clear you had no idea who he was even if he was Loki.”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “There are a million Toms out there. It’s a rather common name. And he didn’t give me his last name…so, even if he’d had Loki hair, was dressed as Loki, I’d never put two and two together. He’d be that guy with the ears who played Loki. He didn’t even look like Tom Hiddleston to me all day. Just Tom the Guy with the Ears.” 

“Hmmm,” Benedict hummed, appearing amused. “How’s Basil?”

Pamela snapped her head up and cleverly asked, “Huh?”

“Door’s dog.”

“I haven’t seen Basil since I left Del Rio four years— or three years ago. Man, my head is muddled. I feel like someone rearranged my penguins on my iceberg. Or switched it out with someone else’s iceberg…”

Pamela rubbed her temples. 

Benedict chuckled. “Ah, the penguin on the iceberg analogy.”

Pamela snapped her head up. Benedict smiled and explained that Door had written a whole blog entry on the penguins diving off the iceberg as an explanation to why pilots forget things like birthdays, holidays and anniversaries during training. 

Or that time her husband’s roommate made chocolate covered strawberries. 

(Only Door would remember a random detail like that. Door remembered what she was wearing when she started high school junior year— of course she’d remember Jason’s roommate making chocolate covered strawberries and expect Jason to remember.) 

“Or two major films Tom Hiddleston has appeared in,” Benedict added quietly at the end of his explination. 

Only, Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had his own freaking corner on her iceberg. 

How had she not filed away two of his most MAJOR roles? 

How could she have NOT seen Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston in that man’s face? 

(Oh…that face…)

“It was actually the entry that got her noticed because I suggested we use that instead of deleting things from a hard drive— which is what Sherlock used when he explained why he didn’t know the Earth went around the sun,” Benedict went on, choosing to ignore Pamela’s stony state of being. 

Pamela glanced at the man next to her— another famous actor. A guy whose last name had been turned into a freaking verb (according to Door), yet till yesterday Pamela only knew him as Elf Guy.

Maybe it wasn’t such a hard thing to believe when faced with the only celebrity crush she’d ever entertained, Pamela had no idea who she’d been standing next to all afternoon?

 “Urg. I feel so jet lagged, but I haven’t even moved over that many timezones.” 

“I believe when you’re traveling for work and actively working your mind is more in gear than when you’re sleep deprived whilst on holiday,” Benedict offered. “Time zones work differently when you’re actively engaged in something important.” 

“Point,” Pamela agreed, but then shook her head. “But, I’m a pilot. I’m never in the right timezone. And jumping over one shouldn’t knock me over dead like this jump from Paris to London seems to have done.”

And make her a space cadet was left unsaid. 

“Ah, but you’ve got stress from the…mishaps you’ve suffered on this holiday,” Benedict kindly pointed out. “You’re stranded without a plane to fly, a hotel room arranged, and you aren't on a military base.” 

“True,” Pamela conceded. She chuckled, spinning pasta on her fork. “There was never a time I regretting taking Spanish more than when I got stuck in France for two days before managing to catch the train to London.” 

Pamela laughed, remembering her days trapped in middle of nowhere France. She’d been unable to find anyone who spoke English (or at least she could understand) in the tiny town she’d gotten stranded in. Hence why she somehow wound up on a bench in Paris instead where she ought to have been: on a flight home to the US. 

Never had had she been so happy she’d padded in an extra five days and packed a week’s worth of extra underwear. While most people laughed at her overpacking socks and underwear during their missions, now she felt like shoving it in their faces. 

“I’m almost glad I waited till now to do the big European tour. I mean, if this had happened when I was in college or before I’d gone to college, I think I would have self destructed.” 

Benedict raised his eyebrows upward. “You mean you’ve been mellowed by the military?”

“Yeah. Crazy, I know. You really just gotta go with the flow. You roll with the punches or you’ll go insane. Door’s like made to be a military wife, ironically. Most people get frustrated not knowing where they’re going, when and for how long. As long as she has her sewing machine, computer and access to PBS, she doesn’t care.”

“Hmmm,” Benedict hummed. “That does sound like her. At first I thought she was pretending to be so blase about all the unknowns, but she’s not.” 

“Yeah, she helped mellow me out a lot during pilot training.”

“Was that when you first met?” Benedict inquired.

“Well, I met Jason when we did pre-pilot training in Colorado. We were in the same class and were both heading to Del Rio roughly at the same time. I was in the class behind him. They had a house by the time I got there and I had no desire to live in the dorms, so mostly crashed at their house illegally.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, uh, they lived on base and you weren’t supposed to take lodgers,” Pamela admitted, chuckling. “I got an apartment in town, but I was hardly there. I mostly crashed in their guest bedroom.”

“Ah,” Benedict said, nodding his head. 

Pamela twisted the last of her pasta around her fork and stuck it in her mouth. 

“Jason warned me that they’re switching up assignments, so I might not be trapped in Del Rio for three years with them,” Pamela said after she’d swallowed. 

“Is that a good thing or bad thing?”

“Have you been to Del Rio?”

Benedict chuckled, picking up a roll and buttering it. “I cannot claim to have graced Del Rio with my presence.”

“Don’t. No one wants to go to Del Rio,” Pamela insisted. “Well, I’m sure someone wants to go there or it’d not be there, but I sure as hell don’t want to go there. Nor would you, unless you like…dirt holes.”

“Holes filled with dirt are better than holes filled with glass shards.”

“Point.” 

“It won’t be that bad, I’m sure.”

“Well, I’ve been there before and lived to tell the tale,” Pamela offered, pushing the remnants of her meal around on the plate. “I simply…never mind.”

“What?”

“I was hoping when the assignments came down at my base, they’d be…well, better than what had been coming down. Like, I wanted to keep flying the C-17. I love that plane. I love flying it. I like the places it’s based. Hell, I’d go to the Pilot Meat Packing Factory!”

From Benedict’s rather blank look, she assumed Door hadn’t mentioned the nickname Jason has assigned the base in South Carolina. 

“It’s…well, it’s a competitive place for pilots and there’s a lot of them based there. It’s also in South Carolina, somewhere I’d rather not be located. I’m a cold weather being.”

“So is Tom,” Benedict offered quietly before saying louder, “I enjoy warm weather to an extent.”

“Humidity sucks,” Pamela stated flatly, trying to ignore how her cheeks heated up when Benedict had brought up Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston. 

Pamela’s stomach clenched around her meal. She couldn’t figure out if it was a pleasant sensation or not. Instead, she went back to talking. 

“Del Rio is hot and humid. It shouldn’t be humid, but from how the weather patterns flow from the Gulf of Mexico and the mountains in Mexico, the stupid place is humid and yet doesn’t get any good storms. I heard all about these massive Texas thunderstorms and never saw a single thunderstorm the year I was there. Total let down. Then I moved to Seattle and it rained all the time and was humid. But, at least it wasn’t hot. Well, when I was actually there it wasn’t ever hot.”

“You are really hung up on humidity.”

“Of course I am. I hate frizzy hair. And I’m from Colorado,” Pamela explained. “It’s dry there.”

“Dry? I thought it snowed.”

“Well, it doesn’t get humid, really. The air is so dry you need a couple gallons of lotion a month so your skin doesn’t crack. Those were the days…”

Benedict gave her a look that told her she was crazy.

Normally, she’d argue her point more, but she was going to just agree with him she was insane.

Clearly, she’d left her brain somewhere in Europe. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Dorothea_

The computer is ringing.

“Your computer is ringing.”

“I noticed, Jason.”

“Are you going to answer it.”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of scared at the moment.”

“Why?”

“Pamela spent the day with Tom Hiddleston and I don’t think she realized it.”

“Wait. He’s the one you’re obsessed with.”

“Tom Hiddleston is the only actor Pamela knows by name,” I remind my clueless husband. “Well, when I say know…” 

I pull the laptop towards me. We’re eating dinner on the couch (as the table is covered in leather) and the idiot dog seems to think she’s going to get some of my pizza if she sticks her nose in my lap as I try to get the laptop.

“Mine, not yours. You ate dinner, Tripod,” I tell her, as she’s standing on three legs for some reason.

I manage to get the laptop without giving the dog my dinner.

She looks so crushed. Poor dog. 

 I see Pamela is indeed ringing me. At midnight her time. Shouldn’t she be sleeping? 

I had been rather shocked when she’d sent me the pictures earlier today. First off, where had she gotten service to send them? She didn’t have an international plan. Though, maybe she did? I don’t know. She had been unable to use her phone during the rest of her trip, why was she using it now? They came in through the texting menu not through Skype.

I wonder if she knows she sent off international texts this afternoon? 

Anyways, I’d been shocked when the first picture of Hiddleston appeared. Especially since he was carrying the bright ass orange test bag. It was one the bags I’d attempted with waterproof canvas.

It had been a total Walpurgis Night to put together. The bag was meant to be a tote bag aimed at teachers. It was HUGE, spacey and filled with pockets.

Nightmare I tell you. A total, utter, completely screamtastic torment. 

I never made another one.

Since it was sitting around when we were packing to leave Del Rio, I gave it to Pamela because she needed something waterproof in Seattle to carry her groceries. I thought the super orange bag with the failed print interior was PERFECT for this endeavor. (I had tried to create my own fabric pattern and wasn’t happy with the outcome.) Pamela is super GREEN when it comes to feeding herself and her life in general. (I think it’s because she kills the environment for a living as a pilot.) What better way to be green than to use the bag I’d just throw away to carry your groceries in the rain? 

I didn’t know she was going to take the freaking tote bag to Europe then hand it to Tom Hiddleston!

If I had known that, I’d never have given it to her. That bag is fugerific. 

“Hello, darling. How are you this fine evening? Or morning, should I say?” I ask in a fake British accent. (My accents are somewhat horrible. Any accent I try to do winds up sounding like a weird and bad mix of Russian and French.)  

“I hate you,” Pamela hisses at me through her teeth.

Jason chuckles. I slug him in the shoulder. 

“Hi, Jason,” Pamela says. “I guess I’m on the computer.”

“Yeah. The laptop rang,” I admit. “Not the phone.”

Pamela cursed rather colorfully. Basil cocks her head to the side, looking confused at the noise the computer had taken to making. 

“So, how was your afternoon in London. I adore the pics you sent me,” I say, trying to be conversational. 

“I hate you,” Pamela reiterates. 

“I know, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” she hisses.

“Man, you’ve pissed her off,” Jason comments, stuffing his mouth full of food.

I slap him.

“Why didn’t you tell me WHO HE WAS!” Pamela shouts. “I didn’t know till he followed me on Twitter!”

“He followed you on Twitter! No fair! You don’t even like him passed his hair in _Wallander_!”

“SHUT UP!”

I fall quiet. Pamela lets out an alien noise. Basil barks, heading for the window. She continues to bark till Jason hauls her out of the room for timeout. 

“Where’s Ben?” I ask once Jason is in the other room. 

“Night shoot. He left after we ate. He reorganized his kitchen before I got back. It at least makes sense now. I wonder if one of his friends pulled a prank on him. This morning, nothing made sense,” Pamela says. 

“Uh…okay.”

I don’t know anything about kitchens. That’s Jason’s deallio. 

“Well, what the hell happened?” Jason asks, butting into the conversation as he sits back down. “I know you met this dude today that Door’s obsessed with—” 

 “I am not obsessed with him!” I shout. “I appreciate his acting!”

“— and you had no idea who he was. How’d you not know him? Even I know what he looks like. Though, I can’t always remember his name.”

“TOM HIDDLESTON! How is that so hard?”

“He doesn’t look like Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston in person!” Pamela shouts.

“How can he not look like Tom Hiddleston? He _is_ Tom Hiddleston. He looked like it in the photos you sent me,” I say, picking up my cell to look at them again. (I’ve got photos of Tom Hiddleston on my phone!) I show them to Jason, who shrugs at me, eyeing me like I’m mental. 

“He does not! He’s…he’s…he’s got facial hair. And he’s not all that blond! And his hair is all short,” Pamela says. “And…he’s got ears.”

“You thought he was earless before?” I laugh. 

“He certainly doesn’t look like Loki, which was the only role he gave me after telling me he was an actor. He was surprised I didn’t know him. And no one called him Hiddles or Hiddleston or anything other than Tom all day.”

Her voice is raising with each word she says. Soon, it’ll be so high only Basil will hear. 

“Okay. Calm down. Why are you so upset?” I ask.

I had expected her to be annoyed, but she’s seriously freaking out. Besides the register, her voice keeps cracking. Jason is frowning up a storm beside me, while also glaring at me like this is all my fault. Our Pamela is calm, collected and level-headed and I’ve turned her into a panicked, frantic idiot. 

She’s like kind of acting like Martin from _Cabin Pressure_ at the moment. 

“Idon’tknow,” she mutters stringing the words together. “He’sreallycuteandIthought…”

“She’s stringing her words together,” Jason stupidly says.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I’m tired,” Pamela tries. “And…Jason go away.”

Jason shrugs. He gathers up the plates and goes into the kitchen. He bangs around then heads into the bedroom, shutting the door. 

Basil starts to talk. (I’m serious. I think sometimes when she makes these really strange noises she’s trying to mimic talking. Only, it doesn’t work, as we’ve no idea what she is trying to tell us.) 

“He’s gone.”

“Dorothea Zephyrine Judoc-Abercombie I hate you with a flaming passion,” Pamela starts. “I know why you sent Benedict after me, but how could you let me gallivant around town with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston! I told you what I thought about him this afternoon! You knew I thought he was cute! I sent that first message to you hoping you’d know who he was and I wasn’t about to embarrass myself! That was why I gave him that horrible bag you gave me. He’s famous! You should have TOLD ME!”

“I gave that bag to you to lug groceries around Seattle not hand to Hiddleston!” I argue, ignoring the fact she had indeed told me she thought he was really cute and kinda liked him. I was slightly distracted by the fact she’d asked me who he was. First, I was like why is Pamela out with someone she doesn’t know. Then I was like, how can she not know it’s Hiddleston. She even KNOWS his name— though I guess not his face.

Then, well, I couldn’t stop laughing. 

I am a bad friend. Bad Door. No treats for you.

“I didn’t know you’d hand it to Hiddleston and except me to use it as an ad for the shop,” I say finally after the silence has stretched out too long between us. 

Pamela lets out a frustrated noise.

“Groceries? I don’t buy food with that thing! I didn’t know you used purses for that.”

“Oi with the poodles already,” I sigh. “It is a tote. Granted, I made it for teachers to lug around their junk, but I figured you could fit a week’s worth of food in it! I mean, you like having reusable shopping bags! It’s part of your whole save the world campaign since you kill it with jet fuel.” 

Pamela sighs.

“And I’ll use it for the shop. The photo. I’ll use it. I already posted it on the blog. If my luck holds, it’ll go viral!” I tell her. “And then I’ll have to start making that damn bag.”

Oh no. I can see the end of my life and it involves violent orange purses…

“Oh god,” Pamela mutters.

I hear her slam her head into something. 

“Sorry,” I apologize. “Ben really didn’t tell you he was Hiddleston?”

I still can’t believe Ben only got out his first name before Pamela slammed the door in his face. 

“Benedict told me his name was Tom, but I didn’t catch the last name if he said it. I didn’t think much of it,” Pamela admitted. “I mean, I know you’re obsessed with Muthafracking Hiddleston, but I never made the connection till I saw the two names together. God, I’m stupid. Why don’t you ever go on about _Thor_ or _The Avengers_?”

I frown. “I don’t think those are everything he’s about. Plus, while he’s awesome in those, he’s in so many other wonderful things—” 

Pamela cuts me off before I can really get going. “Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Silence falls. 

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.

While I sent her over there to get to know Ben and maybe like him (yeah, Ben’s right, I’m one of those married people who want everyone else to enjoy the same happiness I’ve got going for me), Pamela went and fell for Tom Hiddleston without knowing he was Tom Hiddleston. Pamela had known he was famous (hence the photos sent to me this morning), but she’d failed to realize he was the guy she hairgasimed over on my couch for several weeks. 

Oh….no. Oops. 

No wonder she’s freaking out. Man, if I had met my celebrity crush and failed to realize they were who they were…I think I’d be freaking out as well. 

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

* * *

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

_Pamela_

Benedict talked her into accompanying him to set the next morning. He told her it’d be boring, but Door might hunt her down and strangle her if she failed to go to set at least once while she was stranded in London. 

“You don’t have to hang around all day, but you must get a few photos for her,” Benedict cajoled. 

Pamela was still slightly pissed at Door in the light of day, but went along to distract herself from what a fool she’d made of herself the previous day. She’d been an idiot in front of Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch, Jason Abercrombie and Door the Idiot.

Pamela also did not feel like dealing with trying to get a flight home just yet, so Pamela had tagged along to the set of _Sherlock._

So, that was why she’d spent the past three hours standing around outside the block of buildings somewhere in London. They’d started out in front of what was supposed to Baker Street. Now they were in front of a line of shops nearby. They’d filmed a scene that must have been a huge spoiler, as everyone in the crowd watching gasped much to the crew’s annoyance. Benedict had mentioned they were also going to a Tube station after they finished whatever they were doing in front of the shops.

Pamela had no idea what was going on. She couldn’t even remember what had happened in the last season of _Sherlock_.

She couldn’t remember if she’d watched it with Door or not. She knew she’d seen the first season. There was a pool. And it caused Door to scream when it ended. 

Hmmm, maybe Pamela hadn’t seen the second season? 

It was freezing. The actors all were given additional coats to huddle within between takes and the crew was moving so much between takes they didn’t need the extra warmth. While Pamela was a cold blooded creature at heart, she was freezing.

She’d clearly not dressed properly. She was dressed in her trusty fleece The North Face coat she’d had since college. It’d never let her down till now. 

Failure at life coat…maybe it was time for a new one? 

“Cold?”

Pamela startled, looking above her head to find an older man with reddish hair looking down at her with a slightly amused expression. 

“Uh, yeah. It wasn’t this cold yesterday when I went out, but then again, I was on the move not standing around,” Pamela offered. She smiled a little, trying to keep the scowl off her face at remembering the fact she’d been out with Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston and didn’t know it.

How had she NOT known it? 

Yeah, he lacked the utterly adorable curly blond mop and he was five years older.

She was such a moron.

That was what was bothering her the most. He was literally the only actor she paid attention to— if Door told her to watch something and said Tom Hiddleston, Pamela watched.  

WHY had DOOR not mentioned Loki was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston?

How had she not REALIZED Tom was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston?

“Benedict said you were one of Cricket’s friends,” the man went on, drawing Pamela out of her mind. “I’m Mark.”

“Mark?” she asked, taking hold of his extended hand.

His hand was warm as opposed to her ice block of a hand.

She had managed to loose her gloves at some point during her disastrous trip. 

“Gatiss,” he supplied. “Producer, writer and actor.”

“Pamela Fitch,” she offered. “Do you have a role on this show, or are you just…something else?”

He chuckled, dropping her hand. He put his own hands back into his pockets and smirked.

“I play Mycroft Holmes. I wrote the episode we’re filming,” he supplied, still smirking a little. “What do you think so far?”

“I have no idea why anyone would want to do this for a living,” she admitted, deciding not to tell him she had no idea what was going on because she’d failed to watch season two.

Mark chuckled. “There is a lot of standing around, I admit, but I believe the whole process is what draws people— the process of story telling.”

Pamela huffed. “It seems a lot for a three minute take.”

She glanced around the filled street. There were fans across the street, crew in the street and the actors were huddled around the store front. Benedict was wearing a funny looking hat.  

“They’ve been working on the same scene for, well, forever,” she felt the need to explain when Mark didn’t say anything. “And all that is happening is they are walking down the street. Or something. I’m not even sure. Why do you need a million shots of Benedict walking down a street in a funny hat? They’ve done it like a hundred various ways, going different directions, having the Hobbit looking fellow on the left then the right, then without the Hobbit guy and finally what is the point of that hat? I feel like I missed some sort of joke about the hat.”

“The director has a vision,” Mark offered. 

Pamela shrugged. 

“What do you do for a living, then?” he asked.

She looked up at him, suddenly aware she might have insulted the man. He did not appear insulted, though. Curious. He looked curious. 

“I’m a pilot,” she said.

“Ah, so if you don’t get it right the first time, might not be a second time,” he said, understanding in his tone.

Pamela nodded. “Correct.”

“Mark!” someone called.

“Excuse me,” he said with a bow of his head. “It was wonderful talking with you.”

“Oh, you too,” Pamela said.

Mark walked off, weaving his way through various crew members. Pamela turned and retreated towards where the where most of the crew was hanging around. She stopped and turned back to face the “scene.” Benedict was sitting on some sort of box and texting away on his phone wearing a huge, puffy black winter jacket over the wool coat he wore as Sherlock. She could have gone over there and bugged him, told him she was going to wander aimless around London to get warm.

Not that this was a stellar idea. She had no idea where she was. That was why she was still here. She knew she was in London, but the ride to the set that morning had been a hazy blur as she’d not had coffee. (Benedict had his call time wrong and they were late. No one had been surprised.) 

“Tea?”

Pamela looked down to find a cardboard take out cup under her nose. She slowly looked at the hand around the cup.

It was huge.

It had long fingers.

It was clearly attached to a man.

She slowly trailed her eyes up the arm to the shoulder and finally to the face (even though she didn’t need to, as she was pretty sure by the voice who was trying to feed her tea). 

“I wasn’t sure how you took it, being American, but since you’re here, you ought to try tea,” he went on when she failed to respond.

Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston smiled at her and Pamela really wanted to kick him and run away.

“I, uh, I drink tea,” Pamela heard herself say, taking the cup from him. She tried to take it so she wouldn’t have to touch him, as she’d just turn beet red and have to later crawl into a hole and die.

She failed.

She brushed his fingers with her finger tips and felt completely idiotic, as the teenage girl who resided on the portion of the iceberg that had sheltered Tom Hiddleston squealed _OMG! TOM HIDDLESTON TOUCHED ME!_

He hugged her yesterday.

Did that weird European greeting yesterday. 

He called her darling.

He’d had his hand on her back.

He’d put his arm around her. 

Had pressed up against her back and caged her in when they were on the London Eye, surrounding her with his long arms and scent.

He’d freaking hugged her again before leaving last night. 

This tiny brushing was nothing, yet the stupid teenage fangirl in her head went off like a tornado warning siren. 

“Uh, er, uh, th-thanks,” she stuttered like a complete moron.

She was twenty-seven years old— what the hell was her problem? 

“I got you my favorite. Earl Grey. I didn’t add anything, as I was unsure how you took it. You shouldn’t drink it plain. I add a splash of milk to my own,” he exclaimed. “I have sugar in my pocket and some of that powdered creamer, if you must.”

She should have said something here, but nothing came out. She simply nodded and stared at the cup. He reached into the pocket of the slacks he was wearing, pulling out the pile of packets. 

“Drinking a hot beverage might warm you up,” he offered, his smile faltering for the first time.

Of course it did. She’d gone frozen statue on him. 

“Oh, yeah, duh,” she said intelligently. She held out her hand. He gave her the packets, looking a bit bewildered. 

Pamela stared at the packets in her hand. 

Tom took a pull from his own cup (a travel mug he’d clearly filled with hot water and his own teabag) and studied her for a moment. 

“You take milk in your tea, don’t you? You are insulted I brought artificial cream. I would be insulted as well, truthfully.”

“What? No. Uh, I…well, I don’t…uh, um, I drink, um, herbal teas,” she stuttered out like an imbecile. 

Pamela took a deep breath and pushed her nerves to the very back of her mind. Once she felt calmer, she opened her mouth again.

“Sometimes. Though, they all taste the same and like grass. I don’t know why I drink them if they all taste like grass, but I always seem to have an abnormal amount of herbal tea in the cabinet. Door had some good flavored stuff when we lived in Del Rio that didn’t taste like grass. I don’t remember where she got it, but it was the highlight of her life for almost three months till it ran out.”

And once the flood gates were open they did not close.

“Door takes milk in her tea. She doesn’t like Earl Grey, though. Well, the stuff they sell in the States. She says it tastes like dishwater. She didn’t expect it to, as she drank it over here when she lived in London for a year, but she won’t drink it any longer. She loves Scottish Breakfast, which I guess it hard to find, which makes sense as Door likes it. She usually has to just drink English Breakfast. She likes Tetley or something. She’d rather drink PG Tips, but she can’t see spending ten dollars on a box of tea, so she drinks something else. And you can only get it at the commissary. PG Tips, not whatever she drinks. Alaska wasn’t into tea, I guess. When we lived in Del Rio, she’d always have something strange she’d ordered from somewhere online. It smelled kind of like coconuts. It was loose, like not in a bag. Well, it came in a bag, but the tea wasn’t in little teabags, which—”

Pamela snapped her mouth shut and felt her whole face turn bright red. 

She’d almost started talking about tea bagging— not something she wanted to hear about let alone talk about. (The fact she even knew about tea bagging happened to be a side effect of pilot training where the majority of the people there were male, fresh out of college and immature.) 

She stared down at the top of the take out cup as if it held the secrets of life.

Actually, could it contain the secret to living life? She could use some help at the moment. 

“Informative,” Tom humored her, taking another sip of his tea. “I have noticed tea tastes…off across the pond.” 

“Door says it’s because they mix the leaves differently. She usually gets loose leaf,” Pamela repeated. “From this…tea company out of…some suburb. She’s originally from Chicago. I mean, Chicagoland. Jason gets mad when Door claims to be from Chicago, as she’s not from the actual city.” 

Pamela closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks flame with heat. When she opened them and peeked at Tom, she saw him nodding a slow smile appearing on his face. He turned away from her and looked out over the set, allowing her to collect her wits and come to her senses. 

“Can you see anything from here, darling?” Tom asked, peering down at Pamela.

Instead of answering, she decided she to burn her tongue off with some Earl Grey tea. She managed not to sputter or grimace, a feat in itself. 

It didn’t matter, though, as Tom decided for himself she couldn’t see due to her diminutive height, so he put his hand on her back and steered her closer to the action. Due to the fact he was Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston, no one questioned him on what he was doing there even though he lacked the badge Pamela was forced to wear and the crew all wore. 

He was also not wearing a coat. A proper one, he was dressed in only a suit jacket that went with the suit pants he was sporting. 

Why on earth was he wearing a suit? 

They stood side by side in silence through the take. The director shouted “Cut!” and moved to speak to Benedict about his lack of something while walking down the street while wearing a funny hat. As clearly, he’d failed as this was the millionth take.

Man, she was cranky today. 

Pamela took another burning sip, figuring she didn’t need her taste buds. Tasting things was so yesterday. 

“So, does it taste like dishwater?” Tom inquired. 

“I dunno,” Pamela admitted, looking at the cup. 

It didn’t offer up an answer. 

“Not really,” she lied, as she failed to taste anything, having given up her ability to taste. 

The tea had a very distinctive smell, which was nothing like dishwater. And, how did Door know it tasted like dishwater? She didn’t wash dishes so it was safe to guess she didn’t drink dishwater. Then again, who did drink dishwater? 

“Maybe it is simply an American thing, dishwater tea?”

Pamela shrugged, shifting on her feet. The director began shouting for quiet. 

She was actually thankful to be stuck on the set. It was not the greatest place for a conversation.

Tom calmly pried the unused packets from her hand, which was still raised from when she’d taken them from him earlier. He offered her a smile as he pocketed them. 

* * *

Tom was dressed in a suit and tie. It was navy and had rather large check pattern. 

And he wasn’t wearing a coat. Well, a proper coat. He had a suit coat on. 

He must be able to produce heat insanely well.

Pamela was completely fixated on his lack of proper coat and had been for the past hour. 

The director was finally happy with the Street Walking Scene of Doom and proclaimed it time to move onto the Tube Stop Scene. The crew began to scurry around while the director grabbed Benedict.  

“Why are you in a suit?” Pamela finally asked as chaos broke out around them. 

Tom glanced down at himself before looking back at her. “I didn’t change after the morning interview I did. I did wash my face.”

“Okay.”

“Makeup,” he supplied at her unsure tone. 

Benedict noticed Tom (finally) and winked. Tom waved. 

The director finished speaking to Benedict and turned his attention to the short dude Hobbit dude. He might have been in _The Hobbit_ for all Pamela knew. He kinda looked like a Hobbit— especially next to Benedict’s tall, lanky form. 

Benedict made a beeline for Tom and Pamela.

“Tom,” Benedict greeted.

“Benedict, old sport! Great scene. You can really walk down the street,” Tom teased.

Benedict rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t I know it. I’m sure it’ll all end up on the cutting room floor.”

Tom made a face. Pamela downed the rest of her tea, which was no longer scalding, but still tasted like nothing thanks to her useless tongue. She was quite sad it was now empty. Especially when Tom took the empty cup from her and tossed it in a trash can that appeared out of nowhere. 

“Did you feed yourself lunch?” Benedict inquired.

“Yes, before I dropped by.”

Benedict eyed what Tom was wearing, but did not comment. His eyes roved over towards Pamela. Benedict pulled out his phone from the puffy coat and said he’d have his PA get them a quick bite. Pamela claimed she wasn’t hungry, but her stomach had another story to tell. Tom grinned at her, but put his hand on her upper back and turned her in the direction of a car that had randomly appeared.

“Why are you not wearing a jacket?” Benedict demanded as he opened the car door. 

“I have a jacket on,” Tom said, indicating to his suit coat. 

Benedict gave him a look, but stood aside for Pamela to enter. 

Pamela slid into the car, followed by Tom. Benedict got into the front seat and turned slightly so he could look at the pair in the back. Pamela tried to plaster herself to the door of the car, but the driver clearly had other ideas as the first turn the car took caused her to slide across the leather seat and into Tom’s overly warm side. Tom’s hand shot out and steadied her.

“Oh, you ought to belt yourself in, darling,” he drawled, frowning at her. 

Pamela turned a lovely shade of tomato and struggled with the seatbelt till it was fastened. She still kept sliding into Tom’s side— he seemed to take up an awful lot of room. 

They arrived at the next location, which was already set up somehow. 

The trio got out of the car, which then vanished into nothing. 

Magic. That was the only logical explanation for everything just appearing and disappearing. Magic. 

“I’ve got a half hour,” Benedict said, glancing at his phone. “Ah! Thank you.”

“Hmmm,” the woman hummed, eyeing Benedict. “The bottom one is yours. You didn’t tell me what to get your guest, but figured they wouldn’t want what you have to eat.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Benedict gushed, handing the top container to Pamela. The woman eyed Pamela, muttered something to Benedict and left. 

Benedict led them over to some chairs and sat down. He began to eat at record speed, carrying on a conversation with Tom while Pamela silently ate the sandwich she’d found when she’d opened the container. Thanks to her burnt tongue, she had no idea what it tasted like. 

“Filming’s going to take the rest of the daylight hours,” Benedict was saying when Pamela tuned back into the conversation. 

“Are you trying to get rid of us?” Tom teased, smiling like a maniac.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Pamela,” Benedict apologized. “I’m a horrid host.” 

“No, it’s fine. I still need to call the airlines and get a ticket home. I have to report on Tuesday…” 

Pamela trailed off, wondering what she ought to do. To call the airlines, she needed a phone that could make local calls. She opened her mouth to ask Benedict if she could get a ride back to his flat for the afternoon, when Tom literally jumped out of his seat. 

“I’ll look after her!” Tom volunteered. Loudly and a little too boisterously. “It would be quite rude of me not to.”

He smiled down at her and Pamela stared back at him with wide eyes. 

Oh crap-crappity-crap. 

“NO! I can look after myself! I’ll, uh, go to, uh, a cafe or something. I just have to look up the number— or look up tickets. Wi-fi. Do McDonald’s have free wi-fi here? I forgot to check. But, I can just look it up on my phone. That will work. And I can entertain myself just fine.”

She was babbling nonsense. 

“You better stop her before she gets going,” Benedict said, raising one eyebrow. “Mark told me about her impressive babbling skills.” 

Oh god. Someone had heard her babbling about Door and tea to Tom. Or had she babbled at Mark?

Oh, god…

Well, that settled it. Time to find a hole and die. 

“Darling, we’re not about to leave you on your own in a strange city depending on free wi-fi at McDonald’s. Why would you want to sit in a McDonald’s just to sort your travel arrangements?” Tom inquired, looking confused. 

“Especially since I’d let you go use my internet at the flat,” Benedict added, shutting his take out container. Someone magically appeared and took it from him. 

Pamela opened and closed her mouth a few times, desperately missing her organized mind. Her mind had taken a vacation. All she could think about was the fact she could SMELL Tom. He smelled too good.

Oh my god. She knew what he smelled like. 

Tom Muthafracking Hiddleston had a scent and it was going to go live on the iceberg in the corner with the squealing teenage girl. 

Yes. Pamela needed that hole. STAT. 

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Yes. Internat. Flat,” Pamela stated, not trusting herself to form sentences and being able to stop from spouting off too much information. 

“I also have the internet,” Tom announced. “I also have nowhere to be tonight. Well, other than at home to eat dinner at some point. I’m doing a video tomorrow for my final meal for the challenge. I’m going to eat a baked potato.”

“Brilliant,” Benedict muttered. “I’ve got to get going. What do you plan to do?”

Pamela felt a wave of panic inched into her somewhat full stomach. She stared at Benedict with large eyes. 

“I’m sure I could get you—”

“Where are you flying to?” Tom interrupted before Benedict could finish. 

“San Antonio,” popped out of her mouth before she could stop it. 

“Brilliant!”

“What?”

Tom pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number and shouted, “Cameron! My favorite person!”

Benedict slapped his forehead as someone shouted for him. 

* * *

_Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013_


End file.
